by J. F. Holmes
Done, Garrick pulled his arms from the actuators and reached down. By stretching, he could just barely touch Melodya atop her head. And he did just that, lightly caressing her veiled, raven tresses. She looked up, her golden eyes twinkling. His deep voice, usually stuttering with nervousness when he spoke directly to her without a steady supply of strong drink, was now just filled with warmth. “Lass, in all reality, I am a useless, fearful old man, too burdened with his sins to do what is right. But we just faced down a bloody dragon, and an ancient one, to boot. If that is not a sign to go forward boldly, I know not what such a sign would be. I owe you much, Melodya, and I care for you deeply, despite everything folk might think separates us. If it pleases you, I would like to take care of you, and I’d like to be the only one you dance for from here on out. And all that that implies.”
Melodya’s eyes widened, then grew soft and merry. They glowed with a light all their own, and her skin flushed a bright red. She nodded to him enthusiastically.
Randall smiled. “Finally! The whole company’s been taking odds on when you’d get out of your own way and ask her! Alas, I think this means Bertram’s going to win. I’d prefer if it were me, but at least it won’t be Old—”
He had been about to name their smith, but a knock echoing up from Potbelly’s metal leg interrupted him. Randall frowned and reached forward. None of the visor slits in the stack knight’s helm would allow him a decent look that far down, and Melodya could not tell him who might be down there. Instead, he unlatched the never-used helm hatch and swung it up.
Looking down, he saw a burly older man and a bunch of stout miners covered in mineral dust and grime, anger turning his face scarlet, and fear turning many of the others pale. Randall waved. “Hello! Sir, are you from the town of Auricshire?”
The burly man growled. “Damned right I’m from the town! I’m the mayor here! And what the hell have you done!?”
Randall gestured to the decapitated beast. “We were hired by your Lord Teague, sir. You don’t have to sacrifice your people or your gold any more to this old wyrm. You’re free!”
“Teague!? He’s no more our lord than the Dark Lord himself! We’re independents! We broke free of his father by making a pact with the dragon. It took a tithe of our output, reaching gold it could not, and defended us when we needed it. It never harmed a single soul here in almost a score of years!”
Randall’s eyes widened.
Garrick reached up and slapped his boot. “What did I say, Wizard!?”
The young mage waved at him to shush. Leaning out, Randall called out again, “But we saw evidence in the field. The dragon had attacked!”
The mayor flopped his arms and hands up and down, rage and incredulity evident. “You greedy, brainless idiot! Those burns are from Teague and his army, when they tried to take us last year! Our dragon defended us!”
Randall did not know how to respond, but he was saved from thinking of a way when the mayor looked over, paled like the others, and the whole group turned and ran back toward town. Looking in the same direction, Randall saw a group of riders approaching on horseback. It was Lord Teague and his coterie of personal armsmen. The nobleman rode up, wearing a smile for the first time Randall had ever seen.
The wizard much preferred the frown now.
“Mage! How wonderful! Despite appearances, you and your decrepit contraption appear to have been capable of the task. My people are free of this scourge, and all for a relative pittance. Thank you!”
Randall frowned down at him. “The townsfolk seem to think they were independent, and that the dragon was their defender. They say they haven’t been subjects of you or your house for a score of years.”
Teague’s creepy smile dropped to a tight line. “They were always my subjects. They just didn’t remember. Now they will again.”
“You lied to us. To me.”
“I paid you.” The nobleman sneered and reached for his belt. Pulling a pouch off, he shook it, jangling the coins within. With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, he tossed the purse onto the churned-up ground, bright red with dragon’s blood. “And now I’ve finished paying you. Get off my field.” He turned in his saddle and nodded at the tree line.
Calls and horns sounded from the forest’s edge. Emerging, clanking, from the dark foliage, Teague’s well-appointed and well-armed force strode into view, many pikemen and archers on foot, and a significant number of cavalry on heavy horse. Being pushed in front of them were three non-soldiers, notable for their relative shabbiness: Old Jeff, Even Older Jenn, and Bertram.
“Get off my field before your win starts being tarnished by otherwise avoidable losses, wizard.”
Randall shook his head and looked down through Sir Potbelly’s torso. Melodya’s eyes flared with golden light, and the half-djinnae dancer growled. She reached up, patted Garrick’s boot, and nodded. He nodded back, looked up at Randall with a hard expression, and nodded as well. “Honor, boy.”
Randall frowned and sighed. “Okay. Honor.”
Garrick slipped his arms back into the actuators.
Lord Teague became aware of the deal changing when the battered Sir Potbelly’s right arm reached across its broad steel belly to take up the three-foot-wide war hammer swinging from its opposite waist. He ceased being any kind of aware when the hammer swung and pulped him from atop his horse.
The beast stumbled and ran off, terrified and frothing, while the armsmen pulled back in shock. That shock rapidly transformed into terror when their lord’s boneless body launched upward from a kick by the rogue stack knight. Teague sailed up, over, and a half mile into the forest, vanishing past the line of his now-leaderless army.
The armsmen turned, spurred their mounts, and sounded an alarm to the emerging, assembling force. Randall reached forward and pulled the helm hatch closed, dogging it firmly. Aiming the stack knight at the three captured members of the Company of Sir Potbelly, he turned valves and readied the war machine for battle again. The mage nodded to the two warriors below him and smiled.
“Okay. Let’s go start a fight.”
THE END
Thomas A. Mays is a US Naval officer of 24 years and the author of the bestselling A SWORD INTO DARKNESS and THE MUTINEER'S DAUGHTER. Specializing mostly in military sci-fi and space opera, Tom has also sold and published short stories of social science fiction, AI, sci-fi comedy, and military fantasy (including the Hugo-nominated (and declined) short story "The Commuter"). His works have been featured in the Four Horsemen Universe, Daily Science Fiction, Jim Baen's Universe, The Grantville Gazette Universe Annex, Aphelion, The Writer's Arena, RIDING THE RED HORSE, and his own collection R.E.M.O. He was a top ten finalist for the 2016 Jim Baen Memorial Science Fiction contest. His works can be found on Amazon.
A Niche in Timing
Sean McCune
Twenty seconds.
As I meticulously fired off the last rounds in my magazine, trying to hit effectively with every slug, I remembered my days in school. Elementary, Middle School, High School. Then at the academy. All of these events leading up to my current situation. My impending demise.
Yes. I very much remember school. Being taught exciting things in such a variety of subjects that I barely remember my youth. But I do remember one important historical event that impacted all of mankind. Aliens. Strange how time slows down when you’re on the brink of death.
The unified Earth government, through intense schooling, teaching us that two thousand years had passed since our first contact. Our relations with the humanoid-shaped alien “Fae” had been successful and profitable in science, technology, and understanding various alien species and lifeforms. Planetary ecologies unlike anything our boldest dreamers and writers could ever come up with. But I digress.
Twelve seconds.
“Eat it all!” My guns clicked empty, and they were on top of me. I knew I was dead. I didn’t care. My thoughts wandered back again on the star-paved road that had lead me here.
The Fae. Turned out the Fae th
emselves are as varied as humankind. Very similar lines of physical development. However, they’re primarily carbon dioxide breathers, slightly shorter in stature, and their skin color varies from dark mottled blue to a near pale white. They might be demurely built, but they’re stronger than they look, and with slightly more stamina overall. No, they don’t have pointed ears. Instead, they have two folds, one on each side near the front of their foreheads. Pleasant faces and attractive eyes with triangular irises.
With all the mythos aside, they were fleeing an aggressive species called “Tyrfen”, whose sole purpose, it seems, is to serve as warriors for their otherworldly masters. The Fae were growing desperate. Having lost several conflicts in a short time, Earth’s system had provided much-needed allies, and much-needed resources. We had Mars, as well. It turned out the red planet was nearly perfect for the Fae to terraform. Soon after our meetings, a pact was formed. Our new neighbors moved in and got busy, building themselves a colony world and educating their new neighbors.
“Hull compromised,” came the warning. I continued to think upon the path of destruction I’d followed. Oh yeah, the Fae. Now we battle the Tyrfen together in the deepest parts of space, using Earth’s unique take on Fae science. Our gift, as the Fae have come to remind us, not just of our ability to make war, but of our ingenuity at it. Sun Tzu would be so proud.
So, what about the Tyrfen? Well, they’re much harder to understand. Physically huge and reminding most humans of large, upright bovines, somewhere between three to three and a half meters tall, and weighing up to a thousand pounds. With a juggernaut attitude, they’re hard to kill. Skin is tough and thick, mottled bluish gray to reddish orange, with hair on the shoulders and ankles just above their hoof-like feet. Like a brahma bull crossed with a large horse, having two legs, four arms, and four eyes. With the ability to cover ground and hold a crew-served weapon system like we use armored personnel carriers, and carrying a standard beam rifle, they aren’t exactly fun to fight.
November 12, 4273
1830Hrs Standard (Three weeks before the battle.)
Sienna Base
Planet Guardia-D, Orbiting Andromeda Galactic Star Guardia (AGC-1212.543)
Distance to Earth 2.573M Light Years
My dream faded when the timer winked on and the auto-stim kicked in. I felt the surge of endorphins mixed with other chemicals that keep humans and Fae alive in deep space. Yet something else we came to understand from the Fae. Seems we all need specific native ingredients from our home planets to make us work right.
Go figure. It’s not only extreme pressures, pure vacuum, radiation, extreme heat and cold that might kill us. It’s running out of the trace minerals, gases, and unique formula of micro-biotics that can lead to any number of optional deaths.
I waited a few moments for the cocktail of life to level off, then climbed out of the stasis rack. First things first, I wandered over to the head. The imbedded AI in my cranium pinged me. Even in the head, I wasn’t alone.
You have three messages, the AI’s voice spoke in my head. That was Abbey, my built-in military-grade AI assistant. She had a New England accent from North America, and her occasional avatar image was of a tall strawberry blonde of Latin ancestry. Pretty face, shapely figure, and very asexual. Pity.
I’m Space Forces Lieutenant Colonel Tammie Ash Hern, 18th Space Forces, 5th Operations Group, 5th GAMES Wing, 44th Tactical Assault Mechanized Squadron, also known as Hugo’s Heroes. What does that mean? Nothing, actually. What it really means is, we get to fight, and often. It also means I’m in charge of these knuckle-draggers. In charge of the pilots, specialists, and crew chiefs who keep the mechs running and gunning.
“Go ahead and feed them through in priority,” I said to confirm.
Feeding them now, Abbey confirmed.
“Tams, this is Marcus.” Lieutenant Marcus is my Bravo Flight commander. Solid man. “We need to talk about the next assault run outsystem. Some of the guys have an idea to compensate for the new weapons analytics. See you at roll call.”
“Reply to Marcus. ‘Will do.’ Next message.”
“This is Logistics central AI. Your order for replacement pilots has been delayed by two standard weeks—”
“Stop. Store message for later retrieval.” Abbey confirmed the action and continued to play the next message.
“Hi, Sweetness! Just thought I’d send you a comm to see when you might be swinging by Fractalus Station again. Loved getting with you and Roger last week, and thought maybe we could hook up again soon. Bye, lover!”
“Reply. ‘Depends on what happens and where we go. Thanks for rocking my world!’ End message. Send flowers through my personal account. Message of ‘With Love, Tams’.” Abbey confirmed the message was sent and processed the order.
End messages. You have seventeen minutes before roll call.
“Thanks, Abbey.” I thought about Jessica and smiled. We’d been seeing each other over the years when we could. But, in reality, that meant only about four or five times every other year. We’d VR several times a month, and talked when we could, long-distance relationships being the norm for much of humanity these days. She’s a crazy, beautiful redhead who works in the Control section on Fractalus. A lot shorter than I am, but has it where it counts. Brains, beauty, and brawn. She was raised in a high-gravity environment most of her life, so she’s definitely strong. Don’t ask me how I found out, but let’s say her legs could crush coconuts.
It took only a minute to put on my standard military suit, complete with built-in boots, gloves, and overlap headgear. Then I headed out through the hatch and made my way through the base corridors to the main squadron meeting room. Roll call was mostly a time-honored tradition, but it’s basically a situational meeting covering current forces status, pending operations, ongoing efforts, troop morale and readiness reports, and overall bull session. Added bonus, it kept the boys and girls honest and grounded.
Today was Wednesday, so the junior officers and non-comms would stop by the mess hall and get boxes of fresh doughnuts, carafes of coffee for the humans, and pitchers of Chai tea for the Fae. They love their Chai tea. I really don’t care to know what the Tyrfen like for early morning breakfast.
***
The meeting went as expected, with everyone scarfing down doughnuts and drinking their beverage of choice. We listened in on the in-head announcements, congratulations from the higher headquarters brass on how well were doing, and the preplanning concerning battle orders. Body counts and successful missions meant little against the onslaught of Bullies we had to kill.
Though the Tyrfen numbers seemed almost endless, we had something they feared more than the wrath of their evil Masters.
G.A.M.E.S.
General Armaments Mechanized Exoskeleton Systems. But we refer to them as mechanized infantry, or ‘mechs’ for short. In other words, the three-meter-tall, half-ton Tyrfen can’t move as fast or put out the firepower like my Honey-Badger. But then, at a hundred-to-one against us, I barely get ahead. Well, several at a time, but they frown when I make necklaces out of them for ‘Glenda’.
Aside from Jessica, Glenda is the love of my life. She’s my mech, my darling, my Honey-Badger Mk. 12 Ground Engagement Intra Support Heavy Assault system. Nicknamed GEISHA.
She’s a lady, and I treat her like one. After the thousandth-some-odd engagement and saving my hide numerous times, you come to have a deep-level, life-trusting relationship with your AI-interfaced machine mind. Yeah, I love her. And she says she likes me as well. For a human.
Not to brag, but she’s like suiting up in an armored vehicle of yesteryear, but a hell of a lot more comfortable, and infinitely more maneuverable. Weight is a fraction of what you’d think from the size of her bulk. Lighter, more durable synthetics, including a miracle material made of plasticized metal alloys. That means she tips the scale at a svelte eight tons fighting weight fully loaded.
The GenDyne power tap reactor supplies on-demand juice for the asking. Some energy is routed
and stored for backup, and backups of backups, like most Earthborn prefer. The Fae not so much. They fail to see the point, and their own vehicles and ships have suffered for it over many hundreds of years.
The Tyrfen fight for keeps. Humans fight to win, and we’re damn good at it. Now the Fae have learned that from us, and do the same.
***
November 23, 4273
0324Hrs
Guardia-A.e (A.K.A. “Frozen Dust Ball”)
Planetoid orbiting Guardia-A Super Gas Giant
Forward Objective “Rocky”
My thoughts went over the briefings we’d been given just a few hours earlier. Orders said we must stop an invasive expedition of enemy forces into this sector, another planetoid-sized objective infested with a Tyrfen precursor, a scouting expedition moving over its northern polar surface prepping a base of operations. The intel had been spot-on about this place.
A frozen dust ball with enough atmosphere to breathe, and few life forms, either animal or vegetable, to call the place home. A form of salt-based lichen clung to the craggy surfaces of rocky outcrops and tinted them a faded yellow in the bright reflected light of the gas giant. Deeper in the crust were a fortune in minerals, fuel components, and the makings to build a world class military depot. I mentally clicked transmit on the secure tactical channel.
“Carter. Tell Biggs to bring those support mechs to the south side. These coordinates.” I sent the data in a secure packet. “We have to have artillery support if we’re going to surprise the Bullies. Don’t forget to tell them to bring the hot sauce.” Captain Carter was my XO, and Major Biggs was from the support cadre of Space Marines from the CSF Potemkin. Over a thousand Marines in portable, house-sized, multi-barreled howitzers firing tree-sized shells filled with pure evil. I knew I liked them for a reason.